


Like a Virgin (It Sucked the Very First Time)

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Epiphanies, Fallen Castiel, Jealous Dean Winchester, Love Confessions, M/M, Post Season 8, Schmoop, Seemingly unrequited love, Wet Dream, one night stand (not destiel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel gets laid and isn't happy about it. And for some reason, neither is Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Virgin (It Sucked the Very First Time)

"Dude, you  _so_ don't look like you got laid," Dean says, voice piping along the edge of drunk and a  _weird_ angry that's probably rooted in the fact he's _drunk_. His alcohol tolerance has really gone to shit since he got back from Purgatory.

Cas, on the other hand, is not wasted. He's stomping across the parking lot and toward the Impala wear Dean stands--or rather  _leans;_ his Baby's hood is perfect for leaning when balance doesn't really serve him--and he's got a face that screams 'hell hath no fury like an angel's scorn.' Doesn't matter that it's been months since Cas has been a legitimate winged dick (no, now he's just a regular dick like the rest of them) because he still kicks ass. Dean's seen it--hell, maybe Cas trained Bruce Lee or something while he was on earth.

He isn't fazed by it anymore, at least Dean tries to tell himself that. Cas's open patchwork shirt twists in the wind as he crosses the lot, eyes narrowed and lips tucked in. Dean pressed the bottle of his beer to his lips, appreciating the sight because between the neon lighting from the bar and the breeze twisting through his loose clothes and disheveled hair, it looks like he's making his way down a catwalk, complete with simmering Tyra Banks glower #5.

Fuck. He makes a mental note to never watch America's Next Top Model again.

In the time it takes for him to down the last drops of his beer, Cas is inches away from him, shoulders arched like he's got something to prove.

"If I had intercourse, would I be out here?" he asks, words soaked in a flavor of  _mocking_ that makes Dean want to give himself a pat on a back. Old dogs can learn new tricks, and fallen angels can learn sarcasm.

"You were completely set with that one chick--whatshername--Victoria?" _  
_

"Veronica," Castiel corrects. "Did you not learn from the first time, when you took me to the brothel?"

"You were fresh out of the academy," Dean laughs, gripping Cas by his shoulder. Cas gives him a pointed look which just  _screams_ 'don't touch me' but Dean doesn't really care. "You were digging it though! She was into you, and you were smiling and shit."

"She was pleasant. She held easy conversation."

"Unlike  _you._ It's easy for a big-mouthed lady with a little booze in her system to keep up conversation with a guy who doesn't know the meaning of small talk." Dean rolls his eyes and leans a little farther back on his hood. "So what was the problem? Talk to her about her daddy issues?"

"No," Castiel replies bitterly.

"Then what?"

"We—she—" Cas stammers. "We did not have intercourse."

"Thought that was established, dumbass," Dean mumbles with a lazy smirk.

"She performed oral sex."

Dean's smirk it—it dissolves. He suddenly feels like he's been kicked in the stomach. His skin is hot and everything feels sticky. "Oh," Dean says, and he doesn't really feel like his  _speaking_ when he continues, "are you complaining?"

Cas glowers, eyes never leaving Dean. "I...it was not what I wanted. The experience was generally pleasing but it wasn't how I imagined it."

In any other state, Dean would have so gone for the kill and teased Cas for imagining it. But he'd seen the guy with a porn-induced boner— _of course_ he'd imagined sex. The sick feeling doesn't leave his body—yet he is sobering up quickly.

First, he feels a pang of self-loathing. It's always lingering there, beneath his skin, waiting to encroach his thoughts and make his blood burn so hot he thinks his veins might split and spill over. Dean's eyes then fall shut for a second, a second of pure thought, before he opens them again and lets them graze Cas's form. Then the anger is replaced with a sharp, double-edged cut of possessiveness and jealousy and  _righteous need_ wrapped into one torpedo of anger in his chest.

"If you didn't want to do it, then why'd you do it?" Dean spits like venom.

Cas's eyes widen a little, merely taken aback by the new force of lividity coiling in Dean's mouth as he glares forward. Cas returns it with equal force. "Why do I do anything, Dean? Because you say I should," he bites. "You told me that I needed sex, that it would ease the pain of this plague called humanity."

Dean twists his lips, offering no reply.

"That is you, though. I see that now." He huffs a sigh and steps back, abruptly leaving Dean's self-defined 'personal space'. Dean doesn't like that, but he doesn't really have any right or  _rationale_ to step forward, to close the space again. He shouldn't even consider it. "I would like to return to the bunker now."

They share a look, a look that they've given and taken for years—one that always lasts too long, yet not long enough. Dean breaks it prematurely and fetches his keys, wordlessly climbing into the Impala. Cas follows, also silent, but the silence  _he_ offers somehow blares in Dean's ears the whole ride back.

 

* * *

 

After a few days, Dean decides to apologize.

It's not a decision he makes lightly, but not talking to Cas has been making his whole damn life the most miserable existence he's had in a while. And—well, fuck, he's had a pretty awful life. He's come upon the conclusion that his life is generally less piss-poor with Cas in it.

It's almost midnight and Dean goes to Cas's room, which is just a few doors down from his in the residence quarter of the bunker. For a while he just stands in front of the door, studying the handle, before rolling his knuckles against the metal plate.

Dean starts running his practiced lines in his head— _'dude I'm sorry I took you there and tried to you you a chick, usually friends are grateful for that kind of shit but I know you're not one-hundred percent normal and I should respect that'—_ but when Cas opens the door, his whole mind is just wiped clean.

"Dean?" he says, genuinely surprised to find Dean in the doorway of his bedroom.

"Hey Cas," Dean tries with a smile, but it simmers away. "Can—can we talk—or..." He suddenly remembers his secondary tactic, and lifts the sixpack of beer in his hand up to eye level. "Beer?"

Cas seems to consider this very carefully before gesturing Dean inside. Dean comfortably takes a seat on the foot of Cas's bed. It's after Cas goes behind him to pull up his disheveled comforter that he realizes Cas had already gone to bed. Shit.

"I hope I didn't wake you," Dean murmurs, popping open a beer and handing it to Cas.

"You didn't."

This is going swimmingly, Dean thinks with a sharp pain of regret. He swallows down a gulp of beer and sighs, trying to think of where to start.

"All my life, my dad tried to sculpt me into this perfect hunter. I don't even think he was trying to raise me to be  _human._ Sure as hell didn't let me act like one. 'Cept when it came to hustling, because that got you money, and drinking, because that took away the edge of this violent bullshit, and then getting women. Because—because there's something pure about losing yourself between the thighs of a beautiful woman."

Castiel shifts uncomfortably next to him, staring down into his beer. "I do not see where you are going with this."

"My point is—Cas, I don't want you to be me." Dean turns slightly, pulling up his thigh onto the mattress so that they are facing each other. "I don't want to turn you into me, my flavor of humanity. Or what's left of it." When Cas's eyes meet his own, his heart misses a beat. And it's not because he's drunk, and that scares him. "I want  _you._ "

Cas's lips part for a brief moment, wonderment crossing his stare. "You want me?"

Dean flushes and tears his eyes abruptly to the wall behind him, hiding the flash of panic. "No! I mean, I want you to be you. Be yourself. Be whatever you wanna be."

"Pardon me if I'm incorrect," Cas says slowly. "But you are not the only man on this planet who thinks women are a means to extrapolate one's self from their circumstance."

"Say what?"

"What I mean is, it is not atypical for a male to seek companionship in the form of a one night stand. It would have been perfectly logical for you to attempt to pair me with a member of the opposite sex—but—" _  
_

"Dude, I really don't want to talk about sex or you having sex," Dean interjects.

"You had no problem with the topic of sex when I was a  _virgin._ " His voice drops lower. Dean tastes the blame in the air when Cas talks and it makes him feel that deep, burning  _wrongness_ in his chest again.

Dean winces, then shifts, shaking his head. "Fine—so you were able to get it up?" 

"If by that you mean did I achieve an erection, then yes."

" _Dude,_ " Dean groans and wipes his eyes. "Okay—shit, um, did you know... sign the dotted line?" Castiel stares. "Seal the deal?"

"Do you mean orgasm?"

"Yes! Okay, so you did everything right. Or _she_ did, heh," Dean jokes, but it's stale and forced. He doesn't even find it funny. "What was bad about it? Too much teeth?"

Cas winces at that slightly. "No. It just felt wrong. I felt...dirty."

"In a bad way?"

"Dean," Cas warns.

"Sorry, sorry. So, okay, maybe you're one of those people who... just doesn't like one night stands or something."

Castiel looks bemused. "There are men like this?"

"Yeah, I guess not everyone's a bastard like me." He shifts toward the floor and sets his beer next to the bedpost, freeing his hands so he can crack his knuckles. "But do we really need to discuss your...your intimacy issues? You don't want to have sex again so—"

"I never said I did not want to have sex."

Dean freezes. "What do you mean? You were freaking the shit out, after Victoria!"

" _Veronica._ And I was angry because you put me up to it—because I wasn't ready—and apparently I crave some emotional connection. Which I believe is the _opposite_ of an intimacy issue, for the record."

"Yeah," Dean snorts. "So I'm gonna find you a girlfriend or something? Teach you how to court her?"

Castiel glowers. "You are responsible for my first sexual experience being complete and utter  _shit,_ so it is your responsibility to amend it."

For lack a response, Dean frowns and picks his beer back up. He downs the rest of the can in one smooth gulp and sighs. "Whatever. I'll come up with something."

 

* * *

 

The answer comes later that night, when Dean dreams.

It starts out like many of his dreams have lately: he's twisted in the sheets, panting and kissing this expanse of smooth tan skin. Between his own moans and gasps, he only gets glimpses of toned arms and collarbones, his lips nip desperately at long, slender fingers that sometimes twist in his hair. Really weird stuff—but really  _hot_ stuff. The dream is similar to the ones that have previously visited him, but—something shifts.

He's kissing that same collarbone—protruding through a thin layer of watery soft skin...and fuck, he's moaning and arching his dick into this firm body because he's so  _hot._ What's new is when he finds himself trailing his lips higher, to regions unknown to his unconscious mind. His sucking an earlobe, rolling it in his tongue. Then his nose scrapes down the jawline, a little rough, but in a good way. It makes his own skin feel wild and raw. Then his lips are swallowed by another pair, and he smiles into it.

 _"Cas,_ " he hears himself whisper, eliciting a moan bellow him. And  _holy shit—_ that is Cas's moan. Did he make up that sound? Has he heard it before? Why hasn't he heard it before?

In his dream, though, Dean is unfazed. He is happy and tongue tied and  _sweaty_ as he writhes against Cas— _against Cas!_ —like they are just one person...just one.

Those lithe fingers clutch at Dean's hair, and Cas's lips are on his ear quickly.

" _Dean...I need you..._ "

Dean throws himself in the bed, gasping and twisting his fingers in the blankets as if they'd ground him from the high seizing through his lungs, his blood. He hunches over and lets the vibrating of his pulse subside, cursing himself first for having a wet dream like a fucking teenager and then...then he remembers the contents of that wet dream.

He just dreamed of fucking Cas—his best friend. Cas. What the actual fuck is wrong with him?

Once he cleans himself up and changes his shorts and sheets, he can't go back to sleep. Not thinking about his dream. He tries to brush it all off on being sexually frustrated, but that's really not true. He hasn't been dying for anything but a private session with his Busty Asian Beauties magazine for months—in fact, he's craved something just short of abstinence.

So the only reason, he decides, he'd dream about fucking Cas is because he wants to fuck Cas.

But he doesn't, not really. The dream, what caused him to wake up in a puddle of his own disgusting spunk, was about something more than mindless sex. It wasn't a mirror of a porno scene, it was gentle and easy and  _pure—_ something he hasn't felt since Purgatory, asleep or awake. It's the culmination of months of consoling an angel who got his wings clipped—the result of losing his best friend over and over, gaining and losing trust, losing faith, getting it all back.

He really does need Cas. Not that he doubted it before—it just has a completely new meaning now. Holy shit.

Dean slips into his bathrobe and goes out into the hall. Fast. The hall lights are dimmed, so Dean has to squint into the darkness to find Cas's door. He raps his knuckles against it again, hoping that Cas won't be pissed at Dean for waking him up.

More quickly than Dean expected, the door opens. As light filters past the doorframe, Cas's tired, squinty expression gleams and makes Dean want to run away—like, run to Canada because he's suddenly about to shit his pants. He has  _no idea_ how to do commitment. Lisa had been a really messed up situation, and he'd cared for her and Ben a lot, but this thing he felt in the center of his chest—his  _fucking heart—_ was a lot harder to accept. To take in. To express. He has no idea where to begin.

"Dean? Is everything alright?" Cas rasps.

Dean licks his lips, taking one confident stride forward and throwing everything—his  _straightness,_ his friendship, his  _pride—_ into the wind and pressing his lips to Cas's.

It's nothing like his dream. It's stagnant at first, since Dean is all desperate and Cas is just  _nothing._ Dean holds back a whimper, because he knows he's fucked it up. He's fucked everything up and he should just hightail it out of the bunker now before Sam wakes up and hears about this bullshit that he came up with in his fucking  _wet dream—_

Everything comes to a halt when Cas's lips part, his minty breath seeping into Dean's.

Oh. _Oh._

Before Dean can even react, Cas is grasping at the lapels of his robe, pushing them apart and down his shoulders.

"Dean," Cas sighs when they finally part. His hands are sliding down his sides, playing at the hem of his shirt. Dean is just frozen and mesmerized; his steel blue eyes pierce through the darkness and his small pants are making him feel like he's just fallen back asleep.

After a moment of consideration, Dean raises a hand to Cas's cheek. The light stubble makes the nerves on the ends of his fingers dance, makes him want to kiss Cas along the jaw. And he does, nice and slow, just like his dream. And finds the backs of his knees are pressed against the mattress, and he falls back a little.

"Cas," he says. "We don't have to—"

Cas silences him with a kiss, rough and heavy. His hands clench to the front of Dean's shirt for purchase. "I want—"

"I want," Dean agrees against his lips. Of course he wants. He wants Cas. He _needs_ Cas, but he doesn't need anything from Cas now. "But I—I'm not making the same mistake twice."

Cas shudders and pulls away. Even in darkness, Dean reads the lines on his face. Confusion, hurt. "Are you rejecting me?"

"No!" Dean shouts. "I want you—I don't know how long, but I—I fucking need this." The confession comes out as a low growl, so he has to take a deep breath to steady himself. "I am not rejecting you."

"I..." Cas whispers, rolling off Dean and then beside him on the bed. "Okay."

"'Okay'?" Dean repeats. "Come on, talk to me," he asks softly, remembering that it's alright for him to take Cas's hand now, since they've swapped spit and all. He likes the feeling, when Cas's hand finally relaxes under his touch and their hands can just bend and mesh together like they were meant to be just one extremity.

"Okay, you are correct. I'm not ready. I was not ready before and I am not now. I don't know when." He rolls his head a little, so he can see Dean. "But you are the one I want to...you're the one."

Dean swallows, because Cas doesn't know that 'The One' is a euphemism for soul mates in basically every romantic comedy ever. But Dean knows, and he feels a sickeningly sweet heat bubble in the pit of his stomach, a heat that may have always been there, just in hiding. Rearing its head whenever Cas stared at him past the point of awkwardness. At least it made sense now.

"One step at a time," Dean says, lips curling unncessarily as his voice becomes slightly melodic. "'there's no need to rush'."

"What?"

"Nothing," Dean laughs. Cas mumbles something about Dean and pop culture, but he yawns and that just makes his thoughts mellow out. After a few minutes of silence and girly handholding.  "Hey—let's sleep together," Dean murmurs tiredly. "I mean  _next_ to each other. How does that sound?"

"You did wake me up," Cas says.  _So did you,_ Dean thinks, but decides it's too early to mention he dreamed about having sex. He's decidedly keeping the topic of sex away right now.

He scoots up the bed, and pulls Cas along with him, and then pulls the rumpled covers over both of them. As soon as Dean has the blanket tucked on the opposite side of Cas's body, he doesn't hesitate to just nudge his cheek into Cas's shoulder, resuming holding his hand. There's nothing deep or profound about falling asleep next to Cas. It just feels strangely normal. With all Dean's seen and experienced and done, falling in love with his best friend is definitely low on the list of Fucked Up.


End file.
